Ease My Worried Mind
by Sk8er Chica
Summary: Between the money train ripoff and getting diagnosed with an ulcer, it's been a rough year for Lem. His high-stress job certainly doesn't help. A chance encounter with a stray animal could be just what he needs.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing!

 **A/N:** Set during Season 3-ish. First _Shield_ fic. Hope you enjoy!

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Lem checked his watch. He'd been stuck in the back of the doctor's office for over half an hour with nothing but a handful of gossip magazines from the late '90s. He winced at the dull ache that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his gut. He probably should've eaten breakfast, but nothing sounded good to him anymore most days. As much shit as the other guys had given him about his appetite, he missed being hungry.

Lem wished he had something to distract him from the pain and then spotted a human anatomy model next to the sink. He wondered if he could take it apart and put it back together. He hobbled over to the sink and picked it up. The lungs were easy enough to take out. It looked like the tongue was removable too, which struck him as weird. He heard footsteps outside the door, causing him to drop the model on the floor, where all the organs popped out. There didn't happen to be any furniture to kick the pieces under, either. Dr. Darryl Gage entered the room to find his patient standing over the remains of the anatomy model.

"I'll pay for it," Lem said quickly.

"No need for that," Dr. Gage said with a wave of his hand. He picked up the model and had in back together within 30 seconds. Smiling kindly, he added, "You're not the first. So, Mr. Lemansky, how have you been feeling?"

"Uh, great," he lied before doubling over in pain.

Lem limped the short distance to the table and sat down.

Dr. Gage checked the nurse's notes. "You've lost weight since your last visit." Lem is aware of that; every morning, he has to pull his belt over an extra notch. "Have you been taking the steroids I prescribed?"

The steroids, which are supposed to kickstart his appetite, have only had the effect of making him nicely tense and alarmed. Also he doesn't always remember to take them, not even after sticking a Post-It note on his bathroom mirror.

Realizing the doctor is waiting for an answer, Lem admitted, "I take the scripts when I remember. I'm still puking blood every night."

"Are you still using Rolaids to get through work?"

"Only a lot." Lem said, producing a slightly crushed pack from his back pocket and popping one.

"I see. Have you thought about transferring?"

Crunching away, Lem frowned. "What, you mean, like, working behind the desk in the evidence room?"

Dr. Gage nodded. "Stress may not actually cause ulcers, but it can definitely exacerbate them. Working full-time with gangs is about one of the most stressful jobs I can imagine."

"I've got some seniority, but I like it where I am," he said stubbornly. "I trust those guys with my life."

"Could you take some sick time?"

"I don't have any." Both before and after finding about the ulcer, Lem had had strings of days where he was too sick to get out of bed.

Dr. Gage tried another angle. "Have you considered adding in...alternative treatments?"

Lem, already on his second Rolaid of the morning, frowned again. "No way, Doc, I hurt enough as it is. I ain't lettin' anybody stick needles in my stomach."

"I didn't mean acupuncture. I was thinking more along the lines of ways to manage your stress," Dr. Gage explained. "There's yoga. Some of my patients paint. One of my nurses goes surfing every weekend. Even something as small as petting an animal can help."

"Really?"

"Studies have shown petting a cat or a dog can reduce the levels of certain stress hormones. Of course, whether or not you can keep one at home depends on the pet policy."

Lem had always liked animals. Maybe he could call the animal shelter after work and see about volunteering.

"In the meantime," Dr. Gage started scribbling on his prescription pad, "I'll tweak the dosages on your meds, see if that gets you feeling better. Try out ways to decompress. I promise that once you get a handle on your stress, you'll be in a lot less pain. I'll see you this time next month, unless you need me before then."

After making his followup appointment with the receptionist, Lem looked at the clock. He'd missed roll call again, lovely. As he drove to the Barn, he wondered if the box of free kittens was still on Dutch's desk. He was at work a lot, but cats were supposed to be pretty low-maintenance. He wished he could've taken the rest of today off; he hadn't slept well last night. Trying to sneak in a nap on the clubhouse couch was just asking for trouble. Shane would probably draw something obscene on his face with Sharpie.

When he got to the Barn, Lem parked his Jeep and dug his badge out of the center console, slipping the chain over his head. The desk sergeant buzzed him into the squadroom. Passing by Dutch's desk, Lem saw the box of kittens was gone.

'So much for that,' he thought.

Nobody was in the clubhouse, so he sat down with a phonebook and flipped to the "Y"s. Dr. Gage's mention of yoga had made him curious and he started looking for schools. Lem heard heavy boots headed his direction and flipped to the next page, which happened to advertise frozen yogurt stores.

"Well, look who finally showed up," drawled Shane.

"Lay off," Vic warned. "I told you he'd be late today. He had an appointment."

Shane rolled his eyes. "Lem's always at the goddamn doctor."

"You think I like feeling like this?" Lem growled.

"Knock it off!" Vic ordered. He noticed the open phonebook and the ad for Frosty Spoon Frozen Yogurt. "You finally get your appetite back, Lem?"

Lem shrugged. "Somethin' like that."

"Hear that, Shane? Better hide your lunch."

Would Vic ever let him forget that? It had happened once and only because of a smudged takeout container and Shane's terrible handwriting. Shane had bitched about it the rest of the day, acting like he was about to starve to death.

"Seriously, that's good news," said Vic, clapping a meaty hand on his shoulder. "You've really looked like shit lately."

Lem still felt like it too, but he didn't tell Vic that.

"Get your gear," Vic instructed. "It's warrant sweep day."

"Regulators, saddle up!" cried Shane.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning that followed was about as normal as it ever got for the Strike Team: rousting pimps, gangbangers, and dealers, then tossing them in the van for a one-way trip to the Barn. Lem was still in pain, but put it to the back of his minds. The team needed him sharp. He was running low on Rolaids, so he only popped them when he hurt enough to start sweating. Nobody seemed to notice. When Vic stopped at In 'N Out for lunch, Lem ordered a Coke to keep his blood sugar up and nothing else. Nobody said anything.

By the time their shift was over, the sky had turned gloomy, a hint of thunder in the air. Lem was just grateful he hadn't needed Vic to pull over so he could throw up. He tossed his Kevlar vest into his locker. He was more than ready to go home, take a pain pill (even though that didn't always help), and crawl in bed. He heard rain hammering against the window and pulled his sweatshirt hood over his head before walking out the back door.

Though the Armenians were more apt to sever limbs than plant bombs, Lem had still gotten in the habit of checking under his car before he turned the key every time. He slowly got on his hands and knees to peer beneath the Jeep. Unexpectedly, he found something. A black kitten huddled next to one of the tires, wet and shivering.

"Come here," Lem said quietly. "It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt ya."

Lem half-expected the kitten to bolt. He waited, one hand under the car. The knees of his jeans were getting soaked along with the rest of him. Wouldn't it be something if Shane or Vic walked by? The kitten slowly crawled over and licked his hand. Lem picked the kitten up, carefully checking around its neck for a collar. He didn't find one and it was too late to go to the animal shelter.

"Looks like you're coming home with me," said Lem.

He didn't want the cat climbing on him while he was trying to drive, so he put her in one of the side pockets on his hoodie. The kitten hissed slightly in protest. Lem got in the Jeep, turning up the heater. He wondered if there was a pet store in the neighborhood. If not, he could at least get some milk at a gas station. Lem pulled into the first one he saw.

When he walked in, the clerk glared at him. "Hey, no pets allowed."

"I'm just gonna get some milk," said Lem, trying to guide the kitten's head back into his pocket even though it was too late.

The kitten poked her head out again, squeaking indignantly. Before Lem could stop her, she wriggled out of his sweatshirt and climbed until she was perched on his shoulder.

Lem tried to grab her. "You gotta stay in my pocket." The kitten dug her claws in as he opened the milk cooler. "Ow, don't do that!"

She retracted her claws just a little, almost like she knew what he was saying. Lem decided to pick up a can of tuna for her too. It was still raining when they left, so he was able to convince his new friend to go back in his sweatshirt. He could feel the vibration of her purring against his side and smiled. When he got home, Lem pulled off his hood and set the kitten on the floor. She rubbed her face against the leg of his jeans and meowed.

"I know, I'm gonna get you all dried off," Lem promised.

He hung up his sweatshirt and badge on the hooks near the front door, a relic from the previous owner. Lem needed to do laundry, so he didn't have much in the way of towels. The already small kitten looked ridiculously tiny after he wrapped her in a bath towel. Lem found a box he didn't remember having and tore up some newspapers to fashion a makeshift litterbox. All the while, the kitten emitted high-pitched mews.

"Okay, sweetheart, I know you're hungry," he said, going to the kitchen and pouring milk in a bowl.

He set the bowl down and helped her extricate herself from the towel. She immediately started lapping up the milk. Watching her made Lem's stomach roll like thunder. However, the sensation wasn't accompanied by a wave of nausea that sent him running to the bathroom. For the first time in a while, he was honestly hungry. He knew he didn't have a lot of groceries in the house, so he grabbed his keys and put his jacket back on.

"I'll be back in a little while. Don't wreck the house, okay?" he called to the kitten.

She squeaked loudly as if she understood. Lem went out to the Jeep; he didn't like riding his bike in the rain if he could avoid it. By the time he backed out of the driveway, he knew what he was craving: Mexican. The odds were decent that he'd be sicker than a dog later, but he almost didn't care. He needed food, lots of it, and Tijuana Grill was known for its portion sizes. The family-owned restaurant gave its diners the choice of table service or going around back and picking up takeout from the kitchen. TJ's was close enough that Lem could walk there during nice weather. In fact, before the ulcer, he'd gone there often enough that the staff knew him by sight.

Lem parked near the kitchen and went inside. He was glad there were only three people ahead of him in line. They each ordered, then walked into the bar to wait.

Rosa, the waitress on kitchen duty tonight, smiled at him. " _Buenos noches, Senor Curtis_. The usual?"

"Yeah, Rosa. Thanks."

Lem worried the complimentary chips and salsa might aggravate his ulcer, but he didn't speak enough Spanish to say he didn't want those. It only took about 10 minutes for his order to be ready. As he got in the car and shut the door, he was glad he lived nearby; the smell coming from the takeout container was already driving him crazy.

As Lem walked up the front steps, he could hear muffled thumps coming from the other side of the door. He unlocked it, keeping one hand on the butt of his gun just in case. He found the kitten was jumping as high as she could, batting at his badge hanging on the hook and smacking the wall in the process.

"Guess I should get you some toys," Lem smiled.

She meowed as if in agreement. He hung up his jacket and kicked off his shoes, depositing his keys and holstered gun on a side table. Hungry as he was, wet jeans were seriously uncomfortable, so he went to the bedroom and changed into a pair of old basketball shorts. Lem walked to the refrigerator for a Coke. Despite Dr. Gage's warnings, caffeine really didn't seem to have an effect on his ulcer. This was a small favor, given that his job sometimes required him to mainline coffee.

Lem flopped on the couch, eagerly unwrapped a burrito almost the size of his forearm, then took a huge bite. It was still warm, packed with chicken and rice, drizzled with queso (and not the fake jarred shit that always seemed to be at Super Bowl parties). Lem was somewhat sloppy in his effort to relieve his hunger, resulting in a piece of chicken landing on his shirt. The kitten trotted over.

Lem held up the meat. "You want it?"

He tossed it in the cat's general direction and she pounced right on it. She twitched her tail, waiting for him to drop more. Lem picked out another piece, dropping it on the floor.

"I guess you need a name, huh?" he asked through a mouthful.

She squeaked again and licked her chops. Her fur was drying; Lem noticed how thick it really was. He considered possible names. Nothing too frilly; after all, she was a cop's pet. Jinx would be good for a black cat, but it kind of struck him as mean. Layla, after the Clapton song? The acoustic version reminded him of rainy nights for some reason.

"Layla." He whistled. Were you even supposed to whistle at a cat? "Layla."

The kitten fixed her large green eyes on him and blinked. She walked to the couch and climbed up. Lem took it as a sign she liked the name.

"Layla," Lem repeated, even though he'd always heard cats won't answer to their names.

Layla sat on his thigh and kept trying to bite at the burrito.

"Hey, save some for me," he laughed.

When Layla walked across his lap, she stepped on the remote, turning on the TV. Lem flipped through the channels. Layla jumped onto his shoulder again. Lem settled in to watch a football game. When he crumpled up the empty burrito wrapper, Layla chased it for a minute before resuming her game of trying to knock Lem's badge off the coat rack. Lem munched on chips and salsa as he watched her. Eventually, Layla got the badge off the hook and started wrestling on the floor with it.

Lem stretched out on the couch, resting his head on the arm. Layla lost interest in the shiny object and approached him. She delicately jumped on the couch, then curled up on top of his belly. The effect was soothing, like a furry heating pad.

"Good girl," Lem said, reaching down to scratch her ears.

Layla purred and leaned into his touch. After the game ended, Lem decided he should go to bed; he hadn't been sleeping much lately. Layla followed him into the bathroom as he brushed his teeth, then to his bedroom. Lem found an old shoebox behind the nightstand and lined it with a towel and the T-shirt he'd been wearing all day. He'd heard someplace that puppies and kittens preferred bedding with their human's scent on it. He supposed that's what he was to Layla now. Lem carefully set Layla in the box, leaving the bedroom door open in case she needed water or the litterbox.

"Okay, Layla, sleep tight," he said, turning off the lamp and pulling back the covers.

Lem made himself comfortable and was starting to drift off when he heard a high-pitched mewing.

"No, uh-uh, you sleep down there, sweetheart. This is my bed."

The crying continued. Lem opened one eye. Even in the dark, the kitten's expression was nothing short of pitiful.

"All right, you win," he sighed groggily, getting out of bed to pick her up. "But just this once."

Lem set her next to him on the mattress while he readjusted his blankets. Instead of curling up on his bare chest, Layla walked across his pillow, practically nesting in Lem's hair.

"'Night, Layla," he yawned.

Hours later, Lem was jerked out of a sound sleep by a fit of nausea. His legs were tangled up in the sheets and he just barely got himself out of them and to the bathroom in time. Preoccupied with violently throwing up blood, he didn't realized he'd been followed...at least not until Layla rubbed her head against his hip.

"Not now, girl," he croaked.

Lem turned around and sat with his back against the wall, taking slow, deep breaths. God, he was sick of being sick. Layla kept nudging him with her head and purring, like she was trying to comfort him. Lem absentmindedly rubbed her soft fur until the queasiness passed. On shaky legs, he stood up to rinse his mouth out. The Post-It with his prescription instructions was at eye level and he realized he hadn't taken one of the pills before bed. He supposed getting sick like this kind of served him right.

Lem went back to his room, hoping to sleep off the residual shitty feeling that always comes from puking one's guts out. The alarm clock showed it was almost time for him to be up for work anyway. Admitting defeat, Lem got dressed and took his morning pills while Layla scampered around underfoot. He almost got sick again when he opened the can of tuna to feed her. He made a mental note to go buy real cat food after work (the kibble kind, no question). For his own breakfast, Lem carefully nursed a can of Coke and a handful of crackers. He checked the clock on the stove and stood up.

"All right, Layla, I gotta go to work now."

Lem picked her up and gave her head a scratch. That turned out to be something of a mistake because Layla rolled onto her back and went limp, not wanting to be put down again.

"I'll be back later." Lem promised. "Come on, sweetheart."

As he set the kitten on the floor, she got her legs under her again. Lem grabbed his holster and badge. He set his police-issue baseball cap on his head (backwards as always).

"'Bye Layla," he called as he pulled the front door shut.

The whole way to work, he never noticed all the long black hair clinging to the front of his T-shirt. Lem figured it out when he walked past Ronnie in the clubhouse and Ronnie started sneezing like hell.

"When did you get a cat?" he sniffled.

"Last night. I found her out in the parking lot. Guess somebody decided they didn't want her."

"Didn't want who?" asked Shane, strolling in with a cup of coffee.

Lem wasn't in the mood to be picked on for having a kitten, so he said flatly, "None of your business."

Not wanting Ronnie to be miserable if they ended up in the van all day, Lem figured he should change his shirt. He checked his locker for the spare set of clothes he usually kept in there, but it was gone. Lem gritted his teeth against a sudden stab of pain from his gut. It looked like he was in for one of those days again. At least now he had his girl to come home to.

 **THE END**


End file.
